March

A poem to the month of March, the herald of Spring, 

by William Morris 
  born on March 24th 1834

 Slayer of the winter, art thou here again?
O welcome, thou that's bring'st the summer nigh!
The bitter wind makes not thy victory vain,
Nor will we mock thee for thy faint blue sky.
Welcome, O March! whose kindly days and dry
Make April ready for the throstle's song,
Thou first redresser of the winter's wrong!

Yea, welcome March! and though I die ere June,
Yet for the hope of life I give thee praise,
Striving to swell the burden of the tune
That even now I hear thy brown birds raise,
Unmindful of the past or coming days;
Who sing: 'Oh joy! a new year is begun:
What happiness to look upon the sun!'

Ah, what begetteth all this storm of bliss
But death himself, who crying solemnly,
E'en from the heart of sweet Forgetfulness,
Bids us 'Rejoice, lest pleasureless ye die,
Within a little time must ye go by.
Stretch forth your open hands, and while ye live
Take all the gifts that Death and Life may give.'
 

(William Morris)

Beyond Ourselves

Meeting some ducks in Borrowdale, Cumbria

“A human being is a part of the whole called by us universe, a part limited in time and space.  He experiences himself, his thoughts and feeling as something separated from the rest, a kind of optical delusion of his consciousness.  This delusion is a kind of prison for us, restricting us to our personal desires and to affection for a few persons nearest to us.  Our task must be to free ourselves from this prison by widening our circle of compassion to embrace all living creatures and the whole of nature in its beauty.” 

(Albert Einstein)

Little Lambs

The cold bare hand of winter still grips the landscape but signs of new life are emerging as tiny buds begin to appear on the branches, and the daffodils and snowdrops sway in the sunlight.  Of all the indicators that spring is on the threshold, the sight of new-born lambs are surely the most endearing.

Yesterday, I stood and watched as five tiny lambs wobbled and teetered, trying to control and co-ordinate their long gangly legs and master the art of walking and running. They ran, skipped, jumped, bumped into each other, fell on the grass and their bleating sounded to me like childish laughter; young creatures enjoying being alive.  I could not help but smile and I walked home with spring in my heart.

Little Lamb, who made thee
Does thou know who made thee
Gave thee life & bid thee feed.
By the stream & o'er the mead;
Gave thee clothing of delight,
Softest clothing woolly bright;
Gave thee such a tender voice.
Making all the vales rejoice:
Little Lamb who made thee
Does thou know who made thee

Little Lamb I'll tell thee,
Little Lamb I'll tell thee;
He is called by thy name,
For he calls himself a Lamb:
He is meek & he is mild,
He became a little child
I a child & thou a lamb,
We are called by His name,
Little Lamb God bless thee,
Little Lamb God bless thee.

(William Blake)